


It's 3:30 in the morning and I feel good

by CupcakeGirlA



Category: Olympics RPF, Real Person Fiction, Sports RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CupcakeGirlA/pseuds/CupcakeGirlA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: USA swimming, Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, sex up against a wall in the lockers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's 3:30 in the morning and I feel good

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: not beta'd. I will be going back and fixing things later. Thanks.

You can’t sleep. The Olympics, your last Olympics, are only days away, and the anxiety is bearing down on you more with every hour closer to your flight to London. So you go to the pool to relax. And isn’t that a quandary? You’re stressed out because of racing, because of swimming. Yet swimming, and the pool, is still your sanctuary. You pull on a pair of worn speedos, and jump in the water without a cap, just goggles and your suit. It’s late, and the pool is empty. You know you’d probably get into trouble if they found you swimming without a lifeguard on duty, but for now you simply don’t care. 

You swim back and forth for maybe an hour. You don’t know how many laps you’ve swum, just that your shoulders ache pleasantly, and your calves burn. It’s a familiar pain, and you pull yourself out of the water slowly, ready to go back upstairs and finally get some sleep. Your brain feels slow, sleepy. A warm shower and a change of clothes and you’ll be ready for bed. 

You decide to shower in the locker rooms, in order to avoid waking up Charlie. He’s a pretty tolerant roommate, but showering at 2 AM, when he has morning practice wouldn’t earn you any bro points. 

You sink into a bench in the shower stall, letting the water cascade down over you. And relax back against the wall. You contemplate just sitting here until morning but your pillow is calling to you so you shut off the water and rub at your tired eyes. 

At first you don’t see him sitting there. He’s being quiet, your eyes are drooping. You’re half asleep already, and you have a towel draped over your head to scrub at your hair, therefore obstructing your view. So when strong hands close on your hips, and you’re pulled suddenly backward to rest against a wide chest, you flail a little in surprise. Arms wrap around you, pinning your arms to your sides.

“Don’t fucking break my nose, Mike!” a voice growls in your ear. Ryan. The moment you recognize the voice you instantly relax, dropping your hands and going a little pliant. He releases your arms, hands going back to your hips.

“Ryan?! What the actual fuck? You scared the shit out of me!” you say, dragging the towel off of your head and turning to look at him over your shoulder. He smirks at you, lips pouty and full. Your eyes zero in on the freckles which have broken out across his nose from training in the sun all summer, and it distracts you just enough that he’s able to steer you forward until you’re braced against the row of lockers lining one side of the room. Hands pressed flat to the cold metal to keep yourself from face planting.

“Dude, you’re so easy sometimes,” he growls in your ear, one hand pressing hard to the center of your back, while the other reaches down to tug on the towel at your waist. 

“Come on, man!” you laugh, reaching down to hold onto your towel. Ryan tugs harder and the towel falls away. He presses down hard on your back and you stumble closer to the wall of lockers. “Fuck, Ryan!?” you ask. He smirks at you when you look over your shoulder at him. 

“Come on, I’m doing all the work! It won’t hurt your precious taper!” he says, and you almost give in, letting him do what he wants. To be honest, you often let Ryan do what he wants, at least when the pool and competition isn’t part of the equation. If he wants you, you aren’t going to stop him. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to make it easy for him either. You hear the click of the cap on a tube of lube being flipped open, but before he can use it you spin around, gripping him by the shoulders and pressing him back into the row of lockers. His body crashes hard and he lets out a harsh grunt of shocked pain. You sort of hope he has bruises from it. Then your mouth is on his. 

The kiss is harsh, aggressive, demanding. Your mouth sucking at his, plundering and conquering without preamble. You pin his shoulders to the row of lockers, using your extra inches to their best possible advantage. He whines against your mouth, hands winding around your waist to clutch at your back, one sliding down to grab at your ass. You buck against him. He scoffs, breaking the kiss to nip at your lips. You pull away hissing. 

“No marks,” you growl.

“Look at you, acting all butch. Like you’re the one in charge here,” he laughs. You press him into the lockers harder, and he grunts again, more in annoyance than pain. But then the hand on your ass slides a few inches lower, and his finger presses dry and insistent at your entrance. You groan, leaning into him and he laughs. “You going to keep pretending?” he asks, pressing the digit inside, and you let out a shocked moan, your forehead falling to rest on his shoulder. Your hands slide around him, clutching at his body like a lifeline. He crooks his finger and you cry out, muffling the sound in the curve of his neck. Ryan takes shameless advantage of your momentary distraction, again. He wraps one strong arm around your waist and picks you up. You always knew that strong man training would be good for more than just extra power to accelerate through the water. The next thing you know it’s your back hitting the white painted cinder-block wall. You lift your head to groan and find Ryan’s mouth right there, grinning smugly. “You done?” he asks. And you hold his gaze for a minute, not wanting to concede. He flexes his wrist, bumping your prostate with his finger and you bite your lip to keep from crying out. When he spins you around and presses your face first to the wall you don’t bother trying to fight. He’s right you do want this. You always want this. 

When you go lax against the wall, he relaxes against you, his touch softening. 

“I don’t know why you always have to put up such a front, Mike. I know you,” he says quietly, lips grazing the side of your neck as he talks. The finger in your ass is removed, but returns a moment later, slick with lube, and is quickly joined by a second. “I know what you want. And you always give me this eventually.” He says this a bit smugly but you can’t really argue with him. Not when it’s true. Instead you push your hips back into his hand, closing your eyes and turning your head away, biting your own lip to keep from moaning out loud. 

His fingers stretch you carefully, lips traveling across your shoulders as he prepares you, teeth scraping over the skin of your back, without biting down. He’s careful not to leave a mark. Not this close to the Olympics. But he knows how to touch you, where and how hard, to make your whole body ache with want. 

You let out a little whine when he pulls them away but they’re replaced with his dick a second later and then all you can do is claw at the wall, and try to keep breathing. You bite back the yell building in your throat, and spread your legs a touch wider, sucking in short desperate breaths. Your erection bobs against your own belly with each push of Ryan’s hips against yours. 

“Fuck,” Ryan pauses, groaning in your ear. 

“Yesss,” you whisper and he lets out a short gusting laugh, before pulling his hips slowly back and then pressing into you again, this time hard and fast. Your arms brace against the wall and you put your head back, reveling in the pleasure he’s causing to rush through your body. 

He angles his hips for the perfect push, his dick gliding across your prostate in the very best possible way, at least while you’re both standing upright. His right hand leaves your hip to curl around your dick in a tight pulling grip that has your hips moving even more eagerly against his.

It doesn’t take long for you to start to get there. Ryan’s good, and it’s been a while, and oh you’ve been needing this. Some part of you wonders if maybe Ryan could see it in you. One look and he can recognize the need building inside of you that’s being denied, warring with the stress and anxiety of the coming games, of the expectations, and the pressure.

You shout as you come, biting it back as much as you can, and pressing your forehead to the cool wall in front of you. Ryan’s hips stutter against yours, his hand continuing to pull at your dick, as you groan through the end of your orgasm. 

The hand on your other hips grips you so tightly you are sure there will be bruises there in the morning but this time you simply don’t care. Your arms give out and you press your upper body to the cool wall for necessary support. You can hear Ryan panting behind you. You half expect him to pull out of you and move away. But instead, Ryan presses closer, leaning into you, his upper body molding to your back. He presses the side of his face to your shoulder blade, letting his arms wrap further around your body to clutch you close. 

“I don’t know why we don’t do this more often,” he says, voice soft. He presses one hand flat to your chest, right over your pounding heart. You sigh. 

“Because half the time when we see each other it’s at a competition where our sole focus is beating each other. It’s not exactly a good time to work out non-relationship relationship bullshit,” you mutter back. “And you can be a complete douche.” You’re grinning even as Ryan smacks you on the ass in retaliation. When he backs away from you and heads for the shower, you stay slumped against the wall, eyes squeezed shut and trying to calm your racing heart. 

“You coming?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you reply quietly. He doesn’t wait for you. When you finally peel yourself off of the wall you find him in the shower, with his back to you. Most of the lights are turned low, and god it must be 3 AM by now. Suddenly you’re so tired, you feel like you could sleep for a week. You’re glad then that Bob has you and Schmitty booked for the pool for a late morning session after the Gators and the Longhorns. You step into the same shower stall as Ryan, crowding him under the water. He turns to face you, his eyes closed as he washes himself clean of sweat and cum. You wash quickly, scrubbing away the evidence of your locker room fun. Then you reach out for Ryan. Your hands pull him close by his hips, and when he blinks his eyes open his eyelashes clump together, wet with water. He looks tired and you belatedly remember what it means for Ryan, that Coach Troy has the pool booked for first thing. He’s going to be miserable in the morning. The thought makes your throat feel thick.

“Thanks,” you say quietly. He grins at you lazily, his exhaustion really beginning to show. He leans into you and wraps his long arms around your shoulders, his face burrowing into your shoulder. “You know,” you whisper, pressing a kiss into the side of his neck, nosing at his ear. “A couple weeks from now, I retire,” he tenses up against you, and you tighten your grip on him, “and we won’t be competitor’s anymore. There won’t be anything to keep us from doing, you know… the relationship thing,” you whisper. You don’t loosen your grip, even when he pulls his head up to look at you. The genuine smile on his face makes your stomach clench. 

“Jeah?” he asks. You stare into his eyes, water pounding down on the both of you at 3:30 in the morning, standing in the middle of a shower in Vichy, France and you nod. 

“Jeah,” you reply softly and when he presses you back into the wall of the shower, his smiling lips pressed to yours, you know that no matter what happens once you get to London, you’ve got nothing but good things coming your way.


End file.
